Whom We Have Here

Homily for the Memorial of Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton
Preached on January 4, 2011 at St. Andrew Catholic Church, Harrodsburg KY
Readings: 1 John 3:7-10; Psalm 98:1, 7-8, 9; John 1:35-42

By the age of 29, Elizabeth Ann Seton was a widow with five children. She had lost a husband and a fortune, and her curiosity about the Catholic Church was costing her her place in the New York high society into which she had been born and bred. She tried to remain an earnest Episcopalian but something—or Someone—greater was drawing her away from the faith of her childhood, her family, and her friends.

One Sunday, she attended St. Paul’s Chapel on Broadway where, she later wrote, “I got in a side pew which turned my face towards the Catholic Church in the next street, and found myself twenty times speaking to the Blessed Sacrament there, instead of looking at the naked altar where I was” (cf. Mrs. Seton: Foundress of the American Sisters of Charity by Joseph I. Dirvin, CM, p. 154). She had gone to seek her soul’s consolation in that chapel but found that the Real Presence she was looking for was someplace else.

Elizabeth Ann Seton realized that she was no longer content with bare sanctuaries and empty promises. She craved for the lavish meal of the Eucharist and the fullness of the Truth. She could no longer deny the hunger within her that cried for Christ and on March 14, 1805 she was received into the Catholic Church. She knew that her conversion would cut her off from her worldly connections and it did. Yet, it also cemented her celestial connection: at her first Holy Communion, she exclaimed with conviction, “at last, God is mine and I am His!” (Dirvin, p. 168).

Throughout the millennia, many others like Mother Seton have found themselves looking for something more, yearning for Someone Great. By God’s grace, somebody always pointed them to the right direction. John the Baptist did so with two of his disciples when he said of Jesus, “Behold, the Lamb of God” (Jn. 1:36). Our parish patron Andrew brought his brother Simon Peter to meet the promised Messiah (Jn. 1:41-42). It was the Filicchi family who first invited Mother Seton to come to Mass. So many more out there are looking for what and whom we have here. We too need to extend to them the invitation that Christ gave to His first disciples: “Come, and you will see” (Jn. 1:39).

Present Here and Now

Homily for the Solemnity of the Nativity of our Lord Jesus Christ
Preached on December 24-25, 2011 at St. Andrew Catholic Church, Harrodsburg KY and St. Mary Catholic Church, Perryville KY
Readings: Isaiah 9:1-6; Psalm 96:1-2, 2-3, 11-12, 13; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14

Said the night wind to the little lamb,
“Do you see what I see
way up in the sky, little lamb?
Do you see what I see?
A star, a star
dancing in the night
with a tail as big as a kite,
with a tail as big as a kite.”

Tonight is fulfilled the ancient prophecy of Isaiah: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone” (Is. 9:1). Tonight the one Morning Star who never sets (cf. Exsultet) pierces that dark sky, beckoning those from afar to come and find Him who is our Creator cradled in the arms of His creation. The lamb and all the other creatures in the cave of Bethlehem invite us to see what they see: the One who is greater than all the constellations in the sky sleeping in their lowly manger (cf. Lk. 2:12).

Before this night, the face of God could not be seen; the Lord dwelt in unapproachable light (cf. 1 Tim. 6:16). But tonight, the dark days are over: we now can see God’s countenance in this Christ-Child; we now can reach out for His hand and hold Him. Here in this Church is Bethlehem, which in Hebrew means “house of bread,” and there at that tabernacle is the crib where the Body of Christ rests.

Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy,
“Do you hear what I hear
ringing through the sky, shepherd boy?
Do you hear what I hear?
A song, a song
high above the tree
with a voice as big as the sea,
with a voice as big as the sea.”

Tonight is sung the new song called for by the psalmist of old: “Sing to the Lord a new song,” David said, “for He has done wondrous deeds” (Ps. 98:1). Yet, this new song came not from the mouth of men; it was heard from the choir of cherubim caroling to the shepherds of Judea (cf. Lk. 2:8-14). Those shepherds invite us to hear what they hear: the good news of great joy that “today in the city of David a Savior has been born for us who is Christ and Lord” (Lk. 2:11).

Before this night, a single angel would come to deliver God’s news and we in silence would listen. But tonight, we mere mortals dare to join that immortal chorus in singing with a singular voice a new song to the Lord: “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom His favor rests” (Lk. 2:14).

Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king,
“Do you know what I know
in your palace wall, mighty king?
Do you know what I know?
A Child, a Child
shivers in the cold.
Let us bring him silver and gold.
Let us bring him silver and gold.”

Tonight is fulfilled the primordial promise of God: “a Child is born to us, a Son is given us; upon His shoulder dominion rests” (Is. 9:5). The shepherds had come to give the Christ-Child homage (cf. Lk. 2:15-20); strangers from the East traveled to offer Him gifts (cf. Mt. 2:1-2, 11). But Herod the king hesitated to bring Him silver and gold. He assumed that the Child shivering in the cold was a threat to His throne (cf. Mt. 2:3). He did not know what the wise men knew: that this Child had come not to claim our earthly spoils but to offer us the heavenly inheritance (cf. Ti: 3:7).

On this night “the true light which enlightens everyone…came to what was His own but His own people did not accept Him. But to those who did accept Him He gave power to become children of God” (Jn. 1:9, 11-12).

Said the king to the people everywhere,
“Listen to what I say:
Pray for peace, people everywhere.
Listen to what I say:
The Child, the Child
sleeping in the night,
He will bring us goodness and light.
He will bring us goodness and light.”

Tonight we heed the ancient call of Isaiah the prophet: “For Zion’s sake I will not be silent, for Jerusalem’s sake I will not be quiet” (Is. 62:1). The king in this carol fulfills this call to share the Good News of Christmas to people everywhere. We too cannot be silent about Christmas as though it were a secret; we cannot be quiet about it when it heralds our salvation. We have to say with the night wind, “Do you see what I see?” “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” (Jn. 1:5). We have to say with the little lamb, “Do you hear what I hear?” With one voice, Heaven and earth, angels and men are singing “Glory to God in the highest.” We have to say with the shepherd boy, “Do you know what I know?” Our God, our God is present here and now! Give your hearts to Him and bow. Give your hearts to Him and bow.

Not a Night for Slumber

Published on December 24-25, 2011 in the Parish Bulletin of Saint Andrew Catholic Church, Harrodsburg KY
 
Homes in the Philippines are never dull and dark on Christmas eve. Lights and lanterns (parols) brighten every window. The richest food is prepared in the kitchen. The dinner table is set up for the feast. All are dressed in their year’s finest. On the night before Christmas every home is bustling with joy.

Sometime before the clock strikes twelve, the whole family walks to the parish church for Mass. The men bring benches along; the children carry their stools. Experience has taught them that on this night every pew is filled and every space in the nave is occupied. Only those who had come very early will get to enter the church; the rest will have to sit and kneel at the parking lot, following the flow of the midnight Mass over the loudspeakers. 

The midnight Mass but heralds the beginning of the celebration of Christmas in the Philippines. None dares to go to sleep just yet, for an old proverb from the Spanish regime reminds everyone: “Esta noche es noche buena y no es noche para dormir.” This night is the good night, proclaims the proverb, it is not a night for slumber. It is the night to keep watch with the shepherds of Bethlehem for the song of the angels from on high (cf. Lk. 2:8-14). It is the night to rejoice “for unto us a child is born, unto us [the] Son [of God] is given” (Is. 9:6). It is not a night for slumber.

It is the night of Christmas when all through the house all would still be up, from the patriarch to the smallest child. They would have gathered after the feast of the Mass (pista ng Misa) to partake of the feast of the dinner table (pista ng mesa). There the family has plenty of food to share: queso de bola (a ball of edam cheese) and pan de sal (bread of salt), jamón (ham) and suman (rice cake), nilagang baka (beef stew) and lumpia (egg rolls). Most of the relatives will come to visit in the morning, but the closest cousins will venture through the lantern-lit streets to give their early Christmas greetings and to get the first plate of what would turn out to be a five course Christmas breakfast.

It is the one night when nobody seems to be bothered about how late it is or that everybody is losing sleep. This night is so good, its joy is so great, that people simply could not and would not wait until the morning to celebrate.

That is why the homes in the Philippines are never dull and dark on Christmas eve. How could they be when it is noche buena, when it is the night that proved to be for the whole world so very good?

So Much More

Published on December 17-18, 2011 in the Parish Bulletin of Saint Andrew Catholic Church, Harrodsburg KY
 
The evangelist Luke tells us that, when the angel Gabriel greeted the Blessed Virgin, Mary “was greatly troubled at what was said and pondered what sort of greeting this might be” (Lk. 1:29). A priest friend of mine, recalling that the angel’s address had been “The Lord is with you” (Lk. 1:28), wondered whether Mary’s confusion had anything to do with the new translation of the Roman Missal. Perhaps, he jested, the Blessed Virgin was pondering which response she was supposed to give: was it “And also with you” or was it “And with your spirit”?

Let’s face it: there are still many among us who are left pondering during Mass what sort of response they are expected to make. After all, it has only been four weeks since the Catholic Church in the United States began using the revised translation of the Roman Missal. It will take a little while longer before any of its new words are committed to memory. In the meantime, I think it is good that, instead of just giving a routine response, we are finally thinking before we start talking, something some of us haven’t tried to do in conversing with God.

What we have here is an opportunity to let our prayer be more intentional, a chance to let our praise be more intense. We can no longer rely on the force of habit to determine what we say at Mass. We now have to mind what we say and to mean what we pray.

This new Roman Missal invites all of us, the priests of God and the people of God, to rediscover what we have taken for granted, to reclaim a reverence that once was there, to revive the fervor for the Faith that has grown cold. The Holy Mass itself has not changed; only some of our words have. And these changes are not meant to confuse but to enlighten: to allow us to see this feast of Heaven and earth in a new light, to find that there is always so much more here than meets the earthly eye and tongue.

Perhaps, it is this “so much more” that the elevated English of the new translation is trying to convey. Some have complained that this rendering is too poetic for those in the pews, that it is too literary for the common layperson. However, I would insist that such an objection comes not from a love for the prosaic but from a misunderstanding of the poetic. If they really knew what poetry is, they too would prefer to employ more poetry in their prayer.

My favorite distinction between prose and poetry comes from a remark made by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1827. It was a line that I frequently cited when I was teaching language and literature to college students at the University of the Assumption. “Prose,” Coleridge explained, “is words in their best order. Poetry is the best words in their best order.”

Poetry, then, is “so much more” than prose. And it is but fitting that we give what is “so much more” to the One who has given us more than we can ever grasp. We cannot be content with giving God what is good enough when we can offer Him what is best. We cannot settle for plain and thought-less prayer when we can present profound and thoughtful praise. It is only “right and just, our duty and our salvation” to use the best words in their best order that we have available in glorifying the Word who made our flesh, the same Word who, for our sake, was made flesh (cf. Jn. 1:14).

Pontifical Low Mass

I found this news today from the blog Rorate Caeli:
 
A reader sends us the following report from the Diocese of Lexington, Kentucky:
 
On Gaudete Sunday, Dec. 11, 2011, Bishop Ronald W. Gainer of Lexington, Kentucky, offered a Pontifical Low Mass with Some Solemnity at St. Peter’s Church in downtown Lexington. The Mass was offered for Regina Pacis Chaplaincy, the apostolate of the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter in the diocese. Bishop Gainer was assisted by Fr. John Rickert, FSSP, the chaplain of the apostolate, and Fr. Noel Zamora of the diocese of Lexington. Over 140 people attended, including the Bishop’s mother, and Bishop Gainer generously met and spoke with many people at the dinner held after the Mass. This was the second time the Bishop has offered Mass for the chaplaincy, the previous occasion being for the conferring of Confirmation about two years ago.

The Christ-Child Dwelling Within

Published on December 10-11, 2011 in the Parish Bulletin of Saint Andrew Catholic Church, Harrodsburg KY
 
Long before lights illuminated trees and homes, Filipino families have hung Christmas lanterns from their windows. Known as the parol in Tagalog, this traditional lantern was crafted in the shape of a five pointed star. Thin bamboo sticks were used to build its frame which would then be covered with colored cellophane or rice paper (papel de japon). Before the advent of electricity, a candle was lit at its center, allowing the tinted lantern to lend to many a darkened home its radiant glow.

In my native Pampanga, a Ligligan Parul (literally, a lantern showdown) is held every December. Known to tourists as the Giant Lantern Festival, the contest features gargantuan parols spanning a breadth of 40 feet and lit by generators powerful enough to light an entire barrio. Gone is the singular candle of old; in its place are a thousand bulbs, timed to beam and dim in a rhythm that gives each stellar lantern a luminescence that can best be described as kaleidoscopic.

In many ways, the sparkle of these man-made stars reminds us during this season of Advent that “the true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world” (Jn. 1:9). However dark these December nights might be, light has not faded from the earth; rather, it blazes with the feat and flourish of these giant lanterns, recalling the words of the evangelist John: “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” (Jn. 1:5).

In olden days, the smaller lanterns also lit the path of those headed to the parish church for the misa de gallo (literally, the rooster’s Mass), the Mass celebrated after the first cock crow. The faithful would flock to Mass every morning on the nine days before Christmas and each parol, like that fabled star of Bethlehem, led them to the place where they could worship the Christ-child.

Now that street lamps line the path to the Church, the lanterns no longer serve their initial practical purpose. And yet, a Filipino home, however decked with Christmas lights it might be, would still appear naked in the night without a parol gleaming from its window. I suppose that for us the parol has become this radiant reminder of what every Christian home is called to be on Christmas and every day of the year: a shining beacon in this shadowed world, radiating such light and warmth that it invites all those passing by to find at its heart the Christ-child dwelling within.

Love, the Guest

Published on December 3-4, 2011 in the Parish Bulletin of Saint Andrew Catholic Church, Harrodsburg KY
 
There is a new artwork hanging right next to the main doors of Saint Andrew’s Church. It is a print done in calligraphy by Fr. Eric Lies, OSB of Saint Meinrad Archabbey. Its words, from the Rule of Saint Benedict (53:1-2, 15), read: “Guests are to be welcomed as Christ for He Himself will say, ‘I was a stranger and you welcomed Me’ [Mt. 25:35]. Proper care must be shown to all, especially to those who share our faith [Gal. 6:10], and to pilgrims. Great care and concern are to be shown in receiving poor people and pilgrims, because in them more particularly Christ is received.” It hangs there, not only to enhance the beauty of our narthex, but also, to serve as a reminder of what our parish is called to do: to welcome all who come through our doors as we would welcome Christ when He comes again in glory.

Unfortunately, the human race does not have a good track record when it comes to hospitality to the Most High. When the Christ-child “came unto His own…His own received Him not” (Jn. 1:11). There was no room for Him in any inn in Bethlehem (cf. Lk. 2:7); there was no great reception for Him who is the world’s Redeemer. He was the long-expected One, yet only a few noticed that He had come: those who were attentive to the things of Heaven (the Magi) and those who were down to earth (the shepherds). There were even those who did not want Him around, who were ready to kill just to get Him out of their way (cf. Mt. 2:3, 16). But, the rest did not detect the Divine coming to dwell in their midst, so consumed were they with their cares that they cared not to watch or wait for the window of salvation to open.

Nothing much has changed in two thousand years. There are still those who want to take Christ out of sight, out of mind, and out of Christmas. And, the rest are still very consumed by the costs of this holiday that they fail to realize that it is costing them a share of eternity. They have become so obsessed with gifts for the season that they have forgotten the Gift of the season. Their Friday after Thanksgiving is not bright but black, because, for them, this is the time of the year when, as the comic Stephen Colbert points out,  they are “spending money [they] don’t have on things [they] don’t need to give to people [they] don’t like.”

But, for us Catholics, there is more to this season than just sales and presents and decorations. Advent for us is a window of opportunity to practice our welcome for Christ. Our God of second chances has given us this time to be ready to receive Him whom we failed to receive once before. And the only way we can prepare to welcome Him when He comes again is to welcome with the same warmth all those whom He has sent to go ahead of Him: every guest, pilgrim, and poor person who knocks on our door. Christ once came in the unexpected guise of a helpless child; He comes to us still in the guise of those who approach us for help. Each of them is a herald prompting us to make room in our hearts and in our hearths for, as the Advent carol  reminds us, “Love, the Guest, in on the way” (cf. “People, Look East!”  by Eleanor Farjeon).

An Altared Life

Published on November 26-27, 2011 in the Parish Bulletin of Saint Andrew Catholic Church, Harrodsburg KY
 
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

We hear that a lot from folks in the South, especially after an innovative idea is presented. It is their preferred ammunition in many an argument, the card in their deck that trumps any case for change.

At the heart of what these folks endorse as ‘common sense’ are two assumptions: first, that something is not broken; and second, that change would not do any good. Something might look ‘all put together’ on the outside, but inside it could be ‘all broken up.’ We can never be sure until we have examined it closely, until we have checked it completely. It is true that sometimes change can do more harm than good; but, just because something is proven to be good doesn’t mean that anything else that is unproven cannot be better.

Such common sense might work well in the South, but, it cannot take the place of conscience in a Christian. At the heart of what we believers call conscience are two truths: first, that all humanity is broken; and second, that change would do us a whole lot of good.

We might look ‘all put together’ but the pieces of our lives are hardly intact. Only a fool would believe that he is untouched by evil, that he is unburdened by the weight of the world. There is a brokenness in our humanity that needs to be mended. We realize this to be true when we examine our conscience, when we identify those parts of our selves that are disconnected from grace. No less than St. Paul acknowledged this when he said, “I do not do the good I want, but I do the evil I do not want” (Rm. 7:19).

None of us want this woundedness to be left unhealed. None of us has the desire for this brokenness to remain unmended. But, the only condition by which this cheerless condition can be changed is to let ourselves be changed. Blessed John Henry Newman tells us that “in a higher world it is otherwise, but here below to live is to change, and to be perfect is to have changed often” (cf. An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine, ch. 1, sec. 1, part 7). But, this is not change for the sake of change; this is change for the sake of Christ.

For us Christians, change is not just about having an altered life; it is about having an ‘altar-ed’ life. Our goal is not to move away from God’s altar, but to draw closer to it. It is there that we find the Lamb of God who is “broken but not divided, ever eaten but never consumed, [who] sanctifies those who partake of Him” (cf. “Fraction of the Holy Bread” in The Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom). It is by His brokenness that we are mended; it is by His wounds that we are healed (cf. 2 Pt. 2:24).

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Then again, we are ‘broke’ and only Christ can get us mended. But, first, we ourselves have got to change.

Seasoned with Grace

Published on November 19-20, 2011 in the Parish Bulletin of Saint Andrew Catholic Church, Harrodsburg KY

I honestly cannot remember being taught by my family to say grace before or after meals. It wasn’t because my family is not religious; they are more devout than most others in our barangay. But, I have noticed that grace before and after meals isn’t part of “the way we do things.” That, of course, does not mean that we are in any way less grateful for God’s gifts. We just have a strange way of showing it.

The well-mannered of the West would find it quite offensive that, not only do we not say grace, my family allows—nay, encourages—burping during a meal. Burping, I was told by my late aunt Victoria, is natural; it is the body’s response to an appetite that is satisfied, to a stomach that is full. Some of the cooks in my family even look forward to hearing burps from around the table. Somehow they regard them to be the sound of appreciation for a well-cooked meal, the sign that it was a truly gratifying feast. In much the same way, the cooks take note when people slurp their soup (a sign of appreciation for a soup so tasty that people just won’t wait for it to cool down) or when they put away the silver and start eating with their hands (because the food is that ‘finger-licking’ good).

I hope that people do not start thinking that our family meals are but symphonies of those sounds that would make every courteous man cringe. The truth is that every burp from the table is followed by a prayer “Salamat pu, Mal na Apu!” (literally, “Thank you, precious Lord!”) said by the person himself or by the rest of the family. Every sign of satisfaction then is attributed to God; every burp is a reminder to give Him thanks. I realize that this is a very unconventional path to prayer. Yet, somehow, it works for my family. Although we don’t use it as the bookends for every meal, grace is what seasons our food.

I have since learned to say grace before and after a meal. I have learned to control myself from slurping my soup and from burping at the table. But, sometimes, just for old time’s sake, I let out a quick “Salamat pu, Mal na Apu!” There is something to be said about thanking God while I am enjoying His blessings. It reminds me, especially when I am eating alone, that the food that I am relishing is not just something given by God; it is something that He shares with me. Something that is given might have been left for me to enjoy. But, something that is shared signifies some sort of company, a presence that sits with me at the table. God then is not just a waiter whom I thank when He brings me my plate or a busboy whom I acknowledge after I have had my fill. He gets to be the One who sits right next to me during the meal, the One whom I thank for making each bite pleasant and possible.

I realize now that I don’t need to wait for a burp to express my gratitude to God for my daily bread. But, I think that it is also good for me to know, if ever I slipped into my unrefined manners and let one out, that He wouldn’t mind it at all.

A Tale Signifying Love

Homily for the Memorial of St. Margaret of Scotland
Preached on November 16, 2011 at St. Andrew Catholic Church, Harrodsburg KY
Readings: 2 Maccabees 7:1, 20-31; Psalm 17:1bcd, 5-6, 8b, 15; Luke 19:11-28

It was Macbeth who murdered Duncan, but it was his lady who goaded him to grab the chance that would crown him king. Shakespeare though warns us that grim is the end of those who, like this pair, were consumed by greed and ambition: Macbeth eventually dies at the hand of a man not of woman born; his lady takes her own life. In his despair, the usurper dismisses life as but “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” (Macbeth, act 5, scene 5, 26-28).

It was Macbeth who murdered Duncan, the father-in-law of Margaret of Scotland. But unlike that murderer’s lady, this sainted queen urged her husband Malcolm to pray to Christ who had made him king. It was not greed that consumed her but charity. Every day, she would serve the orphans and the poor before she ever sat to eat at her table. Like the martyred mother of seven in the Book of Maccabees (cf. 2 Mc. 7:20-29), Margaret taught her children not to be held captive by the world or by whatever it offers. She nursed them with the milk of human kindness and fed them with the truths of divine faith. Three of her sons became kings of Scotland and in history are noted for their piety and justice. David, the youngest son, was so known for his holiness that we remember him less as a sovereign and more as a saint. The Divine Master had given Margaret her share of gold and instead of wasting her gift she used everything she had to build up the kingdom of God on Scottish soil.

The Lord had said, “To everyone who has, more will be given, but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away” (Lk. 19:26). Macbeth, who had no love for God or neighbor, wasted his life on things that do not last. It is no wonder then that he thought life to be meaningless, to be a tale signifying nothing. But, St. Margaret proved that life can be something more, that life can be a tale told by a saint, full of the power and the glory from above, signifying love for God and neighbor.